


i can't afford to care

by ruskieblaine (pudgysam)



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Carlos is a Dramatic Shit, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Scott is seventeen in this, because why make the road to hell even smoother than it already is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudgysam/pseuds/ruskieblaine
Summary: In their shared pocket of time Scott matches their ragged breathing. And how fucked up is it that even now, Carlos has a hand in grounding him to reality.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the tags, I aged-up Scott so he's seventeen, but since he's still under eighteen, I consider that underage. 
> 
> As most things I've written lately, this is for [Emma](http://svngrd.tumblr.com), who was also gracious enough to constantly read this thing.

It’s been two weeks since Scott last fed. 

Two weeks since he and Carlos left the Twister in ashes.

* * *

Scott flinched away from the fire as the heat licked at his body and the rubble rained down around them, but Carlos stood still. He gritted his teeth, burying his gut-wrenching instinct to run as he watched Carlos’ dark silhouette against the evergrowing flames. In the flickering light he was able to see his face torn between a satisfied smirk and something bittersweet that softened the hard line of his jaw.

Scott isn’t sure exactly how long they stayed there. 

Long enough that his heartbeat slowed from a jackrabbit tattoo to a steady drum, leaving his ears ringing and his body cold. The desert is merciless at night, the sand retaining none of the day’s earlier heat. The cold wind whipped the flames even closer to Carlos. Scott shivered involuntarily. 

Huddling deeper into his jacket he shoved his fists into his pockets, kicked the toe of his boot into the dust, and waited.

* * *

The first hour in the car is spent in heavy silence. The only sound is the creaking of Carlos’ gloves gripping the steering wheel, and the night air howling past as they drove at an easy eighty miles an hour. 

Scott fidgets in his seat, unnerved by the thought of Narciso’s head rolling around in the truck bed. The sword Carlos used, _his_ sword, to behead Narciso rests across his lap, the caked blood starting to stain his jeans. He can’t stop staring at it. 

He didn’t lie to Carlos when he said he’d crossed his ocean. He killed half the lacrosse team and burned whatever was left of the crumbling bridge between Kate and him. His ocean was blood and sand and he _didn’t lie_ when he told Carlos he learned he didn’t like the ocean. 

Scott can still feel Jessica, her fear still on constant replay in his head.

So the head rolling around in the back still creeped him out. 

He absentmindedly scratches his nails up and down the leather hilt, some of the thinner layers of blood flaking off and encrusting the beds. Forcing his head to tilt back he purposefully zones out on what little of the moon he can see through the dark clouds. 

A rag thrown at his head startles him out of his reverie. 

“A bloody blade rusts quickly, _mijo_.” 

It’s a quiet command, but Scott’s ears burn as he quickly tears the rag off his face and immediately begins cleaning the blade with jerky motions.

* * *

By the first signs of dawn, they reach the border and Scott feels the hunger starting to stir at the back of his skull. 

The lines are packed already, and while the tinted windows may keep him from burning to a crisp, the sunlight still scrapes irritably against his nerves. As they creep slowly forward Scott inhales the scent of human blood pulsing faintly nearby. He swipes his tongue along the back of his teeth, his fangs itching to drop. 

He risks a glance over at Carlos. As usual he is unyielding. He shifts closer to the center of the bench and away from the window, the only sign that he could be affected. 

Scott faces forward and screws his eyes shut tight. He takes a deep breath through parted lips and sharply exhales through his nose, attempting to gain control of his senses. 

Soon he even manages to get a rhythm going, a calming sensation that stifles the beast clawing at his ribs. Eventually, he’s even able to differentiate and separate heartbeats in the car parked next to them. A fluttering pulse ricochets dangerously high every few seconds as if in fear, the other contrasting with an even tempo. 

His attention drifts for a minute, but he quickly refocuses on the agitated heartbeat. It reminds him of the frightened herd of white-tailed deer he tore through on his way back to Mexico. _Prey_ , his lizard brain hopefully whispers. He distantly hears a quiet _snk_ , but he disregards it as he feels his fangs itch at his gums before slowly dropping. A subhuman growl rumbles from deep in his chest. 

Claws clutch at Scott’s door handle, and just as he’s about to wrench the door apart like wet paper to hunt, a human hand seizes his wrist, hauling Scott close to a solid body. Angry about being deterred from his prey, Scott snarls at the meat bag. 

The human is either fearless or incredibly stupid. He is impassive in the face of Scott’s fangs. Instead, he grips the back of Scott’s neck and manhandles his face into the crock of the (not human, something like him, older than him, _savior_ skips along his memory) _thing’s_ neck. 

Fingers card through his hair, anchoring Scott. 

“ _Tranquilízate, mijo_ ,” a voice hums, something ancient lurking underneath. “You will learn to control your hunger.” His hold tightens, making Scott simultaneously shudder imperceptibly and curl instinctively inward. The thing (savior _savior_ savior), _Carlos_ , presses dry lips to Scott’s forehead. 

“ _Estás mejor_ ,” his fierce whisper ghosts over his skin. “Remember that.”

A whimper rips itself out of Scott. Horrified by his reaction, by his complete lack of self restraint, he shoves himself away from Carlos and his fucking hand, plastering himself to the door. 

Between haggard pants, Scott snaps, “What the fuck was that?!”

Carlos flexes his empty hand. “You lost yourself,” he shrugs, unconcerned, “I just made sure you found your way back.” 

Carlos turns to him fully, a shark’s grin cutting across his face, at war with his near gentle tone, “I need you at your best, Scott. It’s why I chose you.” 

* * *

Scott doesn’t dare speak. Too afraid of his mouth betraying him. Of accidentally voicing his fear of what exactly it is that Carlos wants from him, and the somehow worse fear that he would do it unasked. He can’t speak unless he wants Carlos to know he’s afraid and that’s unacceptable. 

He stays silent through the border crossing. 

Carlos takes care of border patrol easily, with money or Jedi mind tricks Scott doesn’t know, but they ignore the rolling head in the back and Scott’s own swords carelessly laying uncovered on the bench, glinting in the midday sun. 

“Welcome to Texas,” the guard grins. 

They pull out on the highway, and Scott swallows a few times to wet his suddenly dry throat. 

His voice is hoarse, “Is it always like this?” Not needing to clarify what _it_ was. 

Carlos smiles to himself softly, “Only in the beginning.” 

He doesn’t say it was Santanico who helped ground him like he did with Scott. If it was even Santanico. Scott is grateful for this.

* * *

As twilight gives way to dusk, he grows brave enough to ask about Narciso.

Carlos smirks without humor, his body language open tonight, “I indulge in beauty, and am drawn to those I see greatness in. When I found him, I believed Narciso could be great.” 

He moves to tap his fingers erratically against the blade of Scott’s swords, “I was wrong.”

* * *

A day later, when the sun is high and hot, they find Celestino’s hideout and Scott’s sister. 

“Go get ‘em, _cabrón,_ ” Carlos barks. 

Scott is already moving before he finishes his command. 

* * *

“I know you’ll protect me, Scott.” Kate’s eyes are brimming with sincerity and hesitant love, her upturned, outstretched hand clutching at the bonds. A truce. 

Scott can hear her blood pound. It has been two days since he’s eaten. 

He wants to puke. 

Swallowing his bile, he takes the bonds, and turns his back onto his sister, into the relief of the dark house, searching for Carlos. 

* * *

A week passes and things change rapidly. They run into Tanner, Scott forces Kate to kill an innocent man, and Carlos turns two more into their kind. A man named Tucker, and Maia. 

Carlos quickly grows attached to Maia. The dawn that she has turned, Maia grabs Carlos by the front of his coat with a wicked grin and playfully pulls him to their truck. 

Scott jerks forward automatically, one hand already wrapped around a sword, but Carlos raises a hand, his eyes locked on Maia. “It’s alright, _vato_. The grownups are just going to have a talk.” 

The others laugh behind him and turn to the RV to sleep, but Scott is rooted to the ground as he watches Maia crawl into the truck, Carlos following. Something in his chest cracks. 

A small hand tentatively falls onto his shoulder. “Scott?” Kate’s voice trembles briefly before she steels herself, “You need to get out of the sun.” 

She was right. He could already feel the sun burning flakes of skin off of his vulnerable neck. Her hand tugs gently at his shoulder, and he is too weak from hunger to resist. 

They duck into the Chevrolet Tucker stole yesterday, Kate in the front passenger seat, Scott stretching out in the back. He carefully shakes his swords off within reach into the footwell, yanks his hoodie over his head, faces the back cushion, and willfully tunes out Maia’s moans. 

* * *

It isn’t as if Scott depends on Carlos to feed. He’s proven that by spending weeks on his own and surviving.

It’s just. He feels like he has to prove _more_ of himself to Carlos. Prove that he isn’t a child constantly needing to sate his hunger, that he isn’t weak. 

So when Carlos offers part of his kill to Scott, tossing the half-drained body of a biker at his feet, Scott waits until he’s gone (off with Maia most likely, he bitterly thinks) before he buries the body in a shallow grave.

His bestial half roars in anger from the waste of a meal, but he tells himself he feels his control grow stronger even as he becomes more ravenous. He’s aware he’s probably lying to himself. 

* * *

Two weeks have gone by faster than Scott anticipated, and he hasn’t been this weak since he went back home. He lists on his feet, his anger is short, and he feels himself growing careless and rash. 

He had been hiding his growing hunger from Carlos, but a small slip up ruins his resolve. 

It’s close to D-Day (Tanner gleefully prefers Dick the Boss Day), and Carlos is ready to make his move. 

His plan is to straight up saunter into Malvado’s pit and drop Narciso’s head on his desk. 

It’s literally one of the stupidest, if not the _worst_ , ideas he could possibly have. However, Scott seems to be the only sane person (culebra or human) because everyone else praises Carlos, and Scott just. He goes off the rails. Slightly. 

“Oh yeah, _great_ plan,” he rolls his eyes so far into his head it hurts. “You’ll just waltz right on past the culebras on his payroll that stand between the door and him. No problem.” 

Carlos raises an eyebrow in amusement, but Maia curls her lip in a sneer. “Like you have a better idea, Short Round,” she hisses, disdain dripping like venom.

Scott bares his fangs, “Yeah it’s called common goddamn sense.” 

Her fangs drop at that, and Scott transforms completely in response, daring her to try something. He registers his savage excitement briefly, the beast in him yearning to rip into a warm body, wanting, no _needing_ to fight. However, before either can make a move Carlos roars loudly, shaking the dust from the ceiling. The air grows still as everyone around them cowers, and they both back off immediately. 

Carlos steps forward, away from Maia’s side. Scott silently preens as he stands in front of him. It’s the closest they’ve been in weeks. Since they crossed the border. He just barely resists swaying closer. 

Carlos tilts his head, considering Scott curiously. “What _is_ your plan?”

He cracks his neck, a nervous tick he’d thought he’d gotten rid of when he turned. “You send me in,” he states. 

Maia scoffs loudly, but Carlos holds up a fist, silencing her. 

_You’re worried, mijo._ Carlos’ voice is briefly jarring, as Scott hasn’t heard it in his head in nearly a month. 

“Fuck yeah I’m worried,” Scott snarls. He’s viciously satisfied to see Maia flinch. “Send me in. They don’t care enough about me to try to kill me, but they’ll eat you alive the second you walk in that shit hole.” Carlos grins. 

Maia steps forward, eager to be in his good graces again, “I’ll do it.” 

Scott narrows his eyes, “I got this, thanks.” 

_No._

He reels abruptly, anger mixing with hurt at the crushing rejection. Carlos catches his eyes, and Scott tips his head back in defiance. 

“Maia will go,” he says calmly. “I expect Malvado to understand my message.” Without turning he raises his voice, “Say nothing, do nothing. Let the _coño ladrón_ speak for me.” 

Scott looks over Carlos’ shoulder in time to see her nod her head, scowling that she didn’t get his full attention. Snatching the bloody bag off the floor, she tosses her hair and strides to her bike in the garage of the warehouse they’re momentarily calling home. Scott watches her until she’s out of sight. 

“Leave us,” Carlos’ sharp command breaks the tense silence. Tanner and his culebra groupies scuttle off. Tucker soon follows, leaving only Kate and them. 

She stands firm, “Scott?” And god, his heart breaks a little. After everything he’s forced her into, she still wants to protect him. 

He gives her a weak smile, “It’s fine, Kate. I’m fine.” She bites her lip, still unsure, but finally she leaves and it’s just the two of them left. 

Carlos grabs his jaw, forcing Scott to look him in the eye. He twitches as Carlos’ gaze flits across his face. _You are hungry, joven. ¿Cuánto tiempo ha pasado desde tú ultimo alimentado?_

Scott tries to free himself, but Carlos quickly readjusts so his hand is curled around his skull and presses their foreheads together tightly. _Tell me._

He swallows, “A while.” As if he needed a reminder, his legs shake in the effort to keep him standing. There’s no way Carlos can miss it. 

Carlos frowns. Out loud he asks, “How long is awhile?” 

His legs tremble violently, and he gropes at Carlos’ arm to try to steady himself. “Too long, _mijo_ ,” Carlos hisses. 

Before he can stop him, Carlos scoops him up in a bridal carry as if he weighs nothing. Scott punches at his stupid bicep weakly, “I’m not some goddamned girl.”

Carlos ignores him, and after half-heartedly beating his chest a few times, he gives up, letting his fists fall into his lap. He graciously doesn’t comment on the quiet snicker that echoes in his head. 

They walk a few yards passing through multiple rooms until they come to a stop. Scott draws his eyebrows together in confusion, but Carlos tosses him gently onto a bed before he can question him. After the initial landing bounce, he realizes the surrounding scent is purely Carlos. He’s mortified by his body reacting to it. Every limb goes instantly limp, his eyes close shut, and he let’s himself sink into the mattress. His hindbrain hums in content.

A cool finger lightly traces his jaw, lingering on the pulse point next to his Adam’s Apple. “ _Duérmete_.” 

His eyes struggle to reopen, coming face to face with Carlos, crouched on the ground. He tries to glare, but doubts its success. “M’ fine,” he insists. 

Carlos shushes him and smiles amicably, moving his hand so he can cradle Scott’s jaw. His eyes close again and he leans into the touch, too exhausted to be disconcerted at how easily he responds to him. 

“ _Volveré pronto_.” And with that, he’s alone. Refusing to think about how cold he suddenly is, he rolls over and instantly falls asleep. 

* * *

He dreams.

An ocean of sand stretches into infinity. He is powerless as Kate drowns under a wave, screaming for the damnation of his soul. He tries to go to her, to help, but the chain around his neck tugs until he chokes. 

He falls backward and lands at Narciso’s feet. Narciso sits on a throne made of thick slabs of stone. The ocean vanishes and his immaculate suit is out of place amidst the ancient rooms of the temple they’re in. 

Scott scrabbles at the lock, desperate to get away, but Narciso just laughs at his attempt. 

“You should stick around, _mijo_! The show is just about to start!” Scott flinches at the endearment, and scratches harder at the lock until thin rivulets of blood run down his wrists. 

Narciso tsks as a drop lands on his boot. He raises his fist to strike, but soft chanting from the opening into the room stops him mid motion. They both turn to the sound, and Scott’s heart pounds when he recognizes Carlos. 

He looks as he did when he defeated the labyrinth: eyes blank and unseeing, his hair long and matted, his beard unkempt, and his suit in tatters. Every step taken is unsteady, like a child just learning to walk. Scott is starkly aware of an overwhelming desire to protect him. 

The chain rattles mockingly as he lurches forward, his body aching with the need to yell at him. To warn him to run, to get the _fuck_ away, but, as in most dreams, his voice is non-existent. Narciso threads nimble fingers into his hair, and wrenches his head painfully back, exposing his throat. 

Cold steel bites into his skin. Narciso chuckles, “Carlitos, your boy is a handful.” His hold tightens, and Scott clenches his jaw against the pricks of pain on his scalp. 

Carlos falls silent. His gaze refocusing and sharpening instantaneously on the blade pressing directly underneath Scott’s chin. His thighs and hips visibly tense, muscles at the ready to pounce. Slowly, he stalks closer, every move fluid and predatory. 

“You should have learned your place, _malparido_ ,” Narciso drawls heedlessly. “Malvado won’t be nearly as forgiving as I wa—”

Time becomes succinct, as it tends to do in dreams. Like a pocket of time has come and gone in a blink. Instinctively, Scott knows something happened, he just doesn’t have all the details.

Carlos now sits next to him, both legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, Narciso’s throat in his fist. The pressure on his scalp releases immediately and above him, he hears Narciso die a second time. 

He stares unashamedly as Carlos swallows the organ whole, watching his throat work. He makes another attempt to speak, but all that escapes is a high whine. At that Carlos twists. 

His beard has been trimmed, his hair cropped. A pair of dove-grey slacks pulls tight across his thighs, and a white dress shirt, with a smattering of blood at the collar, rolled just above the elbows emphasizes his forearms. But it’s his eyes that freeze him. They’re no longer the usual deep brown, but a bright, glowing red, the pupils constricted to almost nothing. 

Fear courses through his body, and Scott crab-crawls to get away, hindered by the fingers still entangled in his hair. He collides into Narciso’s legs, trapped. 

Carlos reaches for him, a clawed hand on his knee, and squeezes, “Don’t worry, Scott. She’s a big girl, she can handle herself.” 

He lunges for Scott and here is when he finally finds his voice, screaming his outrage at the betrayal. 

* * *

He wakes in a frenzy. 

The fear from the nightmare follows him, and he doesn’t know where he is. A heavy weight is dropped on top of him, and his nostrils flare as a sharp smell hits him. Alarmed, he twists and turns violently until he’s out from under the object restraining him. Faintly, he hears the object thud onto the ground. 

With his claws out and his fangs bared, he leaps from the bed, landing clumsily on his feet facing what his thinks is his attacker. Automatically, he searches for his swords. Finding them missing, he squats low to the floor in a defensive position and growls low. 

His attacker, a man he discerns, remains composed, “Again with the hostility, _mijo_?” 

Scott roars. The man becomes annoyed, “ _Eso es suficiente. Ven acá_.” 

When Scott doesn’t move, the man grows impatient. “Fine.”

Seeing the man surge forward, he stands to run, but the man is too fast and kicks his legs out from under him. The breath is knocked from his lungs as he slams into the ground, a strong arm pins him down at the base of his throat. Scott howls in his face. 

_Tranquilízate, mijo._

Scott’s lips part in surprise, his interest piqued by something vaguely familiar. He doesn’t get a chance to linger on the thought for long. A wet, warm substance slides into his open mouth, and he swallows it automatically. Enraged, he plants his feet against the man’s ribs and throws the solid bulk clear off of him. Kicking forward, he thrusts himself onto his feet. 

The man is sprawled on the floor staring up at him, breathing heavily. In his hands is a torn, dripping object. Strangely, he seems to be waiting expectantly. 

He curiously cocks his head to the side, and licks the remnants of the strange liquid off his lips. 

_Recuerde. Recuerde que usted es mejor._

Slowly his tunnel vision fades. Helped by the scarce drops of blood metabolizing throughout his body, he retracts his fangs. Centering himself he focuses on what he knows. First, an intense hunger gnaws at his stomach. Easily remedied, he just has to find fresh blood. Second, the man. He knows this man. An assault of memories flood his mind, a word he can’t quite grasp defines what this man means to him. Another whispers incessantly, etched onto what he thinks could be considered his soul, _savior_. 

Scott staggers cautiously toward him (a name, he needs a name, remember his fucking _name_ ), eyeing what looks like a ruined heart in his hand. 

“More?” he rasps out, hopefully. 

Carlos (finally, _finally_ ) climbs to his feet gracefully, and pats off invisible dust, more cat-like than snake. Scott shuffles unsteadily closer, apprehensive of his welcome. A long second passes, were it seems as if he won’t be forgiven, but when he’s close enough, Carlos wraps an arm around his neck and drags him into his warmth. 

Grateful, Scott burrows into his side, hastily slinging his arm to clutch at his hip. His mind feels fragmented. He shakes from starvation and the nightmare that still bleeds sluggishly into reality. Images of red eyes flash before him, and he reflexively ducks his head into Carlos’ chest, his cheek pressing into his sternum. 

“A bad bender, _vato_?”

Scott doesn’t answer. 

Carlos sighs. “There’s more,” he says, towing him to the bed. 

The object, he notices, turns out to be a recent kill. Specifically, a woman’s naked torso sitting in a growing puddle of blood. Her legs, arms, and head had been ripped off, and a gaping hole above her left breast indicated where the heart was previously. A deep slice from stomach to groin cleaves her neatly, making it easier to dig at organs. The good, wholesome, Christian side of him is revolted at the corpse, but the culebra, salivating at the mouth, lets his fangs unhinge again.

He releases and clenches Carlos’ hip in turns, intending to dive upon the feast, but hesitant. The culebra in him hisses that this isn’t his kill, that he must first ask for permission. Tentatively opening the link between them, he pushes awkwardly against Carlos’ mind, wordlessly asking. He’s not used to being the oneto open their connection and he’s nervous that Carlos will be offended by his incompetence. 

Carlos splays his fingers across his lower back, and nudges him away from the stability of his chest. Scott’s heart seizes in fear. 

A whimper claws its way out. He clings to Carlos, burying his face into his throat, and digs his fingers into his hip hard enough that it would hurt a human. The part of him that’s still relatively sane cringes at his behavior, but he can’t fucking _stop_. 

He feels Carlos smirking against his forehead. “I’ll still be here,” he whispers, “but you need to eat.”

He shudders. “I can’t—I don’t know if I can—”

“Shh, shh.” Carlos noses along his hairline. _Tranquilízate._

He reaches around, and carefully pries Scott’s fingers off, one at a time. The hand on his back presses harder on his spine until Scott is kneeling over the woman’s intestines. His mouth floods with saliva, eager now that he has permission and the knowledge that Carlos is less than a foot away.

He dives into the intestines, losing himself to the blood and feeds like the starving creature he is. 

* * *

Scott resurfaces from his feast a while later, drunk and high at the same time; everything hazy, yet still somehow retaining a sharp clarity. He’s finally somewhat settled.

Snatching a corner of the sheet from the bed, he wipes the blood from his mouth and chin. Once clean, he rocks back onto his heels, lazily stretching out his muscles. Tipping his head to the ceiling, he closes his eyes and reaches carefully with his mind for Carlos, but there’s nothing. His eyes snap open.

Twisting his body, he looks around frantically. Panic struggles to smother him. He shoves it aside, and clambers to his feet. Wildly he tears through the rooms, mind desperately seeking Carlos. 

He grinds to a halt when he catches a scent on the air. Blindly he follows it, finding and snatching tendrils of errant thought until his mind brushes with a familiar one. He puts on a new burst of speed, rushing full on toward the presence. 

He ends up back into the open room next to the garage when he suddenly loses his trail. _No_. He doesn’t know how, but Carlos managed to break the connection between them. As if toying with him. Better yet, since Carlos’ scent is fucking everywhere, with his mind gone it’s useless. Scott can’t find him. Not if he doesn’t want to be found. 

Rage bubbles to the surface, and with a sharp cry he slams his fist into the wall. Suddenly _sick_ of Carlos and the hold he has on him. He doesn’t know if it’s because of some weird maker/made bullshit or if it’s his own wacked out brain constantly pulling him to Carlos. 

He rests his forehead on the rough brick crumbling around his fist, and just tries to breathe through the crippling pain of loneliness that cracks his chest. 

“Really, bro? The wall?” Scott whips around, the skin on his knuckles and wrist shredding then instantly knitting itself back together as he tears his hand from the hole. Carlos stands in the middle of the room, at ease, with a half eaten apple in his hand, his usual smirk plastered on his face. “I won’t get my security deposit back.”

Scott stares at him. A thousand different emotions flit across his mind. Anger at how fucking casual Carlos is, relief that Carlos is there and safe (and not with Maia or at Malvado’s), giddiness at how close he is. He struggles with himself briefly before forcing his face into a mask. 

“You know it’s strange?” Carlos asks sardonically, holding the apple up so the light glints off the remaining skin. “This apple tastes the same, but it does nothing for me. It might as well be ash.” He looks at Scott, something hungry in his eyes. “Do you understand, Scott?”

He stumbles toward Carlos, his mouth is dry, his body coming down from the last bit of his high. “A little heavy handed,” he replies, his voice rusty from disuse. 

Carlos’ smirk transforms into something a little softer. “Eh, you’re right.” He throws the apple over his shoulder. 

He gains ground little by little until there’s barely room for air between them. Carlos’ nice dress shirt is opened three buttons at the the neck, and the hollow of his throat looks goddamned poetic. Scott stretches a shaky hand out, fitting his palm around the muscle bridging Carlos’ neck with his shoulder and back, his thumb pressing wonderingly in the tantalizing dip. 

Carlos raises an eyebrow, unfazed, “Something wrong, _mijo_?” 

The crack in his chest breaks into a chasm, and he’s flooded with an intense need, a desire, to crawl into Carlos and never come out. 

Summoning every ragged nerve he has left, Scott grabs Carlos’ stupid smirking face and slams their mouths together. The taste of the richest blood he’s ever had slips past his teeth, and _shit_ he bit Carlos. Jesus, Mary, and goddamned _Joseph_ he’s kissing a five hundred year old culebra. And he _sucks_ at it.

Carlos is going to kill him if he doesn’t off himself first. 

His face burns with shame, and he wrenches himself back, ready to run all the way down to Brazil and keep the fuck going until he drowns in the North Atlantic. He trips and lands on his elbows, hysterical laughter bubbling in his stomach like acid at what he sees. Carlos is wide-eyed with shock above him, the split on his upper lip already stitching itself back together. 

“C-Carlos, boss, look I’m sorry. I’m out of my fucking mind. Just forget this ever happened. I’ll be gone by tomorrow, just—shit—just don’t kill me,” he rambles frantically. 

Carlos blinks once, twice, and advances slowly. Scott ineffectually scrambles away on his elbows. One elbow gives out, and the arm connected to it flails to regain his balance. Carlos drops (a hell of a lot more agile then Scott did, he notes bitterly) onto his knees in front of him, forcing him to open his knees into a v-shape. A hand snatches out, crumpling his t-shirt in a fist and jerking him to a halt. 

So this is when he dies. 

Except he doesn’t. 

The fist hauls him up, and another hand fits around the curve of his jaw. Scott squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for his head to be ripped clean off, but instead Carlos pushes his chin up with his thumb and. Kisses him. On the mouth. 

If anyone told him that Carlos could be in any way soft, he’d laugh in their face (and then kill them quickly out of pity before Carlos could take them apart piece by piece). But, right now, he is. He catches Scott’s top lip between the two of his and just keeps him there for a moment.

_Tranquilízate, mijo._

Scott is all kinds of fucked up because his body lights up like the goddamned Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree that he’ll never see. He moans, and shoves his tongue inexpertly into Carlos’ mouth. The asshole doesn’t even falter, just tilts Scott’s head a little to the left and sucks hard on his tongue, leaving him breathless.

His props up on his elbow to press harder against Carlos’ mouth, his free arm flying up to entwine his fingers in the fine hair at the base of his neck. Carlos pauses, and pulls back, dislodging his arm. Scott instinctively trails after him like a puppy, already missing the taste of him. A dull pressure on his chest pushes him back down, making him open his eyes. 

Carlos is partially changed. His eyes are bright green, the pupils no longer round, but elliptical. The blood from the cut is smeared along his bottom lip. Scott eyes the stain hungrily.

Carlos leers, his lips parting to reveal his silver fangs. “Still hungry?” Scott nods slowly, gaze fixated on his mouth. The hand at his jaw retreats and the pressure on his chest dissipates leaving behind a crumpled shirt. Scott whimpers at the loss.

“Patience is a virtue, _querido_ ,” he quips, carefully rolling up the sleeve of his dress shirt, exposing his forearm. _Like the nightmare._ Carlos cocks his head. 

“So that’s what it was.” He feels his face heat again. God _damn_ it, why does he always have to be in his head?

Carlos rotates his arm, so his palm is facing the ceiling. His other hand simultaneously grabs the waistband of his jeans, yanking him so his ass bumps against Carlos’ knees. 

“No, Scott.” He releases the denim and presses down below the elbow with a finger. A deadly claw extends to make a little indent in the middle of the muscle, not yet nicking the skin. Scott can’t stop his fangs from descending.

“This is real.” 

Then, like the dramatic bastard he is, he breaks the skin with a flourish and stretches his arm out to Scott. Dark blood beads slowly to the surface, a drop at a time. 

Taking it as an invitation, he lunges on the small wound and sinks his fangs in before the cut has a chance to heal. He drinks deeply, lapping at the surrounding skin greedily. 

Carlos shoves his free hand into Scott’s hair, roughly cupping his skull. Scott groans as strong fingers dig into his scalp. It’s like every nerve is vibrating, his body oversensitive, and with every minute tug at his hair or microscopic muscle tremor beneath his mouth, his dick twitches in the confines of his jeans. 

The zipper chafes against his aching dick. Scott tries to lift his hips, desperately wanting relief, but his neck twists painfully at the awkward angle. He whines in distress.

Abruptly, Carlos simultaneously jerks his arm and Scott apart. Scott cries out at the sudden loss. He ineffectually strains against Carlos’ hold, longing for the blood running freely down to Carlos’ wrist. 

Distantly he hears Carlos tsk. “No, I think that’s enough,” he scolds lightly. 

Scott groans in frustration. He drops his head back between his shoulder blades, as far as Carlos’ hand will let him, relishing the slightly painful scrape of warm metal on his dick. He rolls his hips, lifting them off the cold floor, wanting more of that delicious pressure. With Carlos bent over, the base of his dick just barely brushes his stomach. 

Carlos eyebrows shoot up so fast that Scott feverishly imagines them flying off, and he chokes down an inappropriate giggle. _So that’s it._ The thought is lined with what Scott suspects is wonder, but fuck if Scott gives a goddamn about that. 

His head is hazy with hormonal and blood lust, but he’s still able to push with his mind a sense of _what the fuck do you think_ , if not the exact words. The connection thrums with a heady mix of surprise and approval.

His fingers dislodge themselves from Scott’s hair, moving to trace the back of his ear, his jawline, the tendon in his neck. 

He whispers, “ _Mijo._ ” And Scott loses his last shred of control. He surges forward. Carlos reels back to avoid their heads knocking together, which is just what Scott wants. 

Instinctively, Carlos throws his newly healed arm behind to catch himself while his other arm loops around Scott’s waist to stabilize him. At this position, Scott ends up directly above Carlos’ lap. His arms hooked around at strong shoulders, his knees on either side of Carlos’ thighs, so close he can feel heat radiating off him in waves. Time slows to a crawl, and Scott takes advantage of Carlos’ quickly dissolving shock to drag his lips softly along his hairline, inhaling his scent deeply. In their shared pocket of time Scott matches their ragged breathing. And how fucked up is it that even now, Carlos has a hand in grounding him to reality. 

Time skips forward, back to normal, and at this angle he can’t tell if Carlos is pissed or not because this has to be some kind of line crossed, but Carlos is so still beneath him it’s as if he turned stone. His thighs shake from the effort to keep himself off of Carlos’ lap. 

The arm around his waist flexes. “What’s the plan, Scott?” his voice low, and tight. Like it took everything to speak. Almost like he was effected. And _fuck_ Carlos Madrigal, for tearing him apart and putting him back together, out of Scott’s control. For dangling this moment like a piece of meat in front of Scott, but expecting him to do something about it, as if he _ever_ had that kind of power. He jolts violently as Carlos cranes his neck in order to rake blunt, human teeth across Scott’s collarbone. 

_¿Qué es tu plan, querido?_

The question echoes in his head, saturated with fond amusement. Scott narrows his eyes, affronted. With a snarl, he rips Carlos away from his chest by the hair and forces his chin up so their eyes meet, his goddamned smirk splitting his face in half. It’s infuriating. 

“This,” Scott growls. He unlocks all of the muscles below his waist at once, and sits fully on Carlos’ lap, shredding his dress shirt into pieces simultaneously. Carlos exhales sharply as their dicks are crushed together, and _shit_ this really _isn’t_ a one way thing because that’s a hard cock between Carlos’ legs. Scott’s mouth falls open, his eyes flutter shut, unprepared for the pure fucking euphoria that cascades through him.

Carlos releases a growl of his own. Pushing clear off the ground, he presses Scott to him at the waist so he can mouth messily up and down the column of his throat. The new angle is even better, their dicks somehow even closer together. 

When he finds whatever spot he was looking for, Carlos bites down hard with human teeth. Scott gasps, rocking his hips into Carlos as he pulls and worries the vulnerable skin. _Marking_ him, Scott realizes, dazed by his body trying to heal itself as rapidly as Carlos worries the skin. 

“Shit,” he pants, “Carlos. Please.” 

Between sucks and bites, Carlos grounds out, “I have you, _mijo_.” 

Scott keens, high in his throat, “I need—”

Without letting up on his throat, Carlos shoves the hand not on his hip between them, grinding the heel of his palm into Scott’s dick. _Your body won’t let the world see that you belong to me, but you’ll remember this, mijo._

“ _Yes_ ,” Scott hisses out loud. He’s so close, his balls screwed tight. 

Carlos releases his neck briefly, and before he can protest the distance, Scott feels the tips of his fangs scratch at his abused skin. He can see it, in his mind, he can see Carlos sinking his teeth into him, devouring him from the inside out. Scott gasps. All kinds of turned on, he swears under every God that his blood fucking sings, rushing to the surface, wanting Carlos to feed. 

Carlos tears himself away from his neck. “ _Mío,_ ” his voice is surround sound. Snarling in the quiet of the room and reverberating in his head. One last twist of his wrist is all it takes, and Scott is coming in his jeans, hips stuttering. 

He crumples forward, his arms hanging limply over his back, and his head settling into the crook of Carlos’ shoulder and neck. His spent cock traps Carlos’ hand between their groins. He doesn’t try to move it though, and Scott doesn’t feel charitable. If Carlos wants it, he can take it back himself.

Carlos chuckles. Scott whines, muffled by Carlos’ skin, as he slowly reclaims his hand, grazing his overly sensitive cock. He easily lifts Scott up and away from so he has room to rip the remaining bits of his ruined shirt off. When he’s done, Scott settles back into position, and Carlos presses dry lips below his ear, stroking his free hand languidly along Scott’s spine. 

“Are you finally sated, _vato_?”

Scott curls in closer, too boneless to feel any real agitation. “Shu’ up,” he mumbles without heat.

Carlos just huffs a laugh. His hand stops its circuit at the top of his spine. He shifts his hips marginally, so that Scott can feel his still hard dick bumping against his soft one. “Am I gonna have to do this myself then, _cabrón_?”

Scott grins, suddenly giddy. Hiding it in the curve of Carlos’ shoulder, he squirms aimlessly, teasing, until his hard cock is a line of heat underneath his ass. Carlos’ breath hitches. Mesmerized, Scott watches muscles ripple liquidly over his shoulders and down his back. The arm around his waist is another band of heat that solidly anchors him to Carlos, and he’s reminded of the sheer amount of strength that’s beneath him. 

Feeling daring in his post-orgasmic haze, Scott says as nonchalantly as possible, “You could always fuck me,” relatively proud that his voice is steady, only cracking slightly when he says fuck. 

Carlos freezes, every muscle stiff. Scott, himself, stops breathing, thin strands of ice working its way through his ribs. What if he got it wrong? What if _this_ was the point of no return, the line he shouldn’t have crossed? His heart seizes, afraid of being dismissed because of course Carlos wouldn’t want to fuck him, not when he has Maia who, by now, should be returning. 

Ducking his head impossibly deeper into the base of Carlos’ throat, he shoots desperate apologies down their connection, akin to incoherent babbling. Fingers thread through his hair, plucking at tuffs gently at first, and then sharply when Scott doesn’t stop the outpour. 

“Christ, _mijo_ ,” he sighs, his breath ruffling Scott’s hair. “Your next lesson will be patience,” he says wryly. That gives him pause, but before he can block it, insecurity trickles down. 

Carlos sighs again, “I doubt you really want to be fucked into the floor of a warehouse, Scott.” He curls a finger so the knuckle rubs soothingly at the vulnerable muscle at his nape. Just when he thinks he can breathe again, when the ice between his ribs fractures, Carlos says mildly, “In fact, I don’t think you want to be fucked at all.”

Scott’s breathing becomes ragged, his mind going a thousand miles a second. Initially, he’s angry (truly, a surprise). A knee-jerk reaction that quickly fizzles away as soon as it erupts. Irritability follows at its heels at the assumption that just because Carlos is a million years old and can read his fucking mind, he knows _everything_ about Scott. 

He rakes his nails across Carlos’ shoulders, poking his head over to watch the fine, pink lines vanish. Carlos grunts, but otherwise stays silent. Waiting, he realizes.

Scott narrows his eyes at the unmarked skin, “What the hell do you know?”

“About you?” Carlos’ shrugs, his back rolling with the movement. “Not enough,” he admits. 

Scott bares his teeth at the admission. “So, really, you don’t know shit.” 

Carlos jerks, jostling Scott, but not enough to dislodge him completely. Scott freaks, and completely buries his face into the ball of his shoulder. _Fuck_ , why can’t he keep his goddamned mouth fucking _shut_. 

“Don’t act stupid, _cabrón,_ ” he says, anger lacing his voice. “Fucking _think_ for once, and figure out what you want.”

Scott squeezes his eyes shut, guilt beginning to bubble and smothering his remaining annoyance. He does what Carlos demands, and thinks. He knows he doesn’t really want to be fucked. At least he’s pretty sure, he’s never really thought about it besides a passing thought when he’s jacking off. Even then, it was always a girl, and it never went past a finger. It’s never been a man’s dick. 

So he tries to imagine it. Imagine Carlos’ dick. Up his ass. That is. 

It’s kind of a mood killer. 

He flinches away from the thought, his stomach churning a little bit from fear, mostly from nerves, but underneath all of that is something like curiosity and excitement. Slowly, as he turns the idea over again and again, he gets used to it, and his cock starts showing some interest too. And suddenly it’s a whole new beast because sure, he’s not ready _now_ , but he knows he could eventually be. 

Scott’s eyes flutter open. “Oh, fuck me,” he murmurs, his voice shaky. 

Carlos sighs again (and if he does it one more time, great dick or not, Scott will kill him happily), “That’s what I thought.”

Carlos’ grip on his nape tightens, and in a move too fast for Scott to track, he’s on his back, the cold concrete seeping through his thin t-shirt. One of Carlos’ thighs is slotted between his legs, his erection dragging along Scott’s thigh. Scott’s cock twitches as Carlos looks down at him with human eyes. His fangs are gone. 

He bends down until his forehead rests on Scott’s. “Besides, _querido_ , I don’t take what’s not freely given,” he says quietly, as if he didn’t take Scott’s humanity without question, up-turn his entire goddamned _world_ without his consent. Carlos laughs softly, whether at what he feels through their link or something else Scott is unsure, and brushes a kiss on his cheekbone. 

“Its a turn off.”

And then he’s gone. 

He leaves Scott curled on the hard floor, his jeans a gross, cold mess. As if Carlos was never there to begin with. Scott shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t be hurt, but. 

He is. 

**Author's Note:**

> There is a sequel planned, but it might be a little later this summer once I get an internship underway. 
> 
> Also, my Spanish is all kinds of rusty, so if I messed anything up I would really appreciate the heads up. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Find me at my [tumblr](http://ruskieblaine.tumblr.com).


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